


Dread Dreaming

by Evren



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Pre-Canon, Dread Wolf Origin, Elvhen Pantheon, Extremely Ancient Elves in Ancient Times and Stuff Like That, F/M, Gen, POV Solas, Pre-Arlathan, Pre-Canon, Spoilers
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-12-14
Updated: 2015-12-15
Packaged: 2018-05-06 19:19:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,442
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5427620
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Evren/pseuds/Evren
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>In the farthest reaches of the Beyond there lived a Wolf...</i> A tale of the origin of the Dread Wolf, a possible interpretation of elven lore, as told from the Wolf's POV. </p><p>Listed under Solavellan even though it will literally take thousands of years to get there in the timeline :) Ahahaha... This is my conception of Fen'Harel and ties in with my other fics, though there's nothing that contradicts canon at this point. This will probably be short and updated semi-randomly.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Nothing, Pt. 1/2

In the farthest reaches of the Beyond there lived a creature that had crafted itself from nothing. As spirits went the creature was ancient, long of fang and black of claw, its substance formed of Hunger and Pride, but mostly Fear. The creature preyed on smaller beings according to its nature. With magic it caught wisps of thought and emotion, stripped the power from them and fed to sustain itself. The hunter—let us call it the Wolf, for after a few millennia it had taken on vulpine aspects—spent all its time in this fashion, completely alone, and hardly aware of the fact that time existed.

The Wolf knew of similar beings to itself, but never one that exceeded its own strength. And so when the Wolf went out hunting once again, and encountered such a creature, it attacked without much forethought. The Wolf had not yet learned to fear others.

The creature batted aside the Wolf's attack without any effort.

That should have been a warning, but the Wolf was not dismayed. It wielded claws sharper than the knapped edges of obsidian knives—and sliced at its opponent.

The creature raised high a gleaming shield, a cunning defense the Wolf had never seen before. The Wolf's claws scraped across it without marring its surface.

Again the Wolf was not deterred. It had the courage of a predator but not much common sense. It also had a mouth of fangs as long and pointed as silverite spears—and snapped them at the enemy's unprotected flesh.

The creature forced the Wolf's muzzle aside with a sharp jab of its shield. Discarding it, the creature produced a biting lash. The whip cracked against the Wolf's body with a snap of pain, the first the Wolf had ever experienced. 

And the Wolf finally realized this creature was far more powerful than itself.

 _Should I... flee?_ the Wolf wondered, calling to mind the usual and entertaining tactics of its prey. But while the Wolf occasionally fed on Fear—one of the finest and most primal of emotions—the subjective experience of Terror was foreign to it, as was the concept of retreat. 

"Stop, Fool Wolf! I do not wish to fight," the creature said.

The Wolf was not familiar with words, but the creature offered them up one by one, each phrase associated with a separate idea concept, and so the Wolf was able to understand. The creature did not wish to prey or be prey. Perhaps it was not hungry. The Wolf was always hungry.

The Wolf withdrew to a polite distance. There it caught the scent of fresh quarry, perhaps a rabbit or a hare, but the Wolf did not wish to depart just yet. An unfamiliar emotion stirred within its soul. The Wolf did not have word-concepts like this creature did—it had never needed them before. It struggled to communicate a question.

 _How... stronger?_ the Wolf wanted to know.

"Do I detect some curiosity?" the creature asked. "Astonishing. You are more complex than you appear, Inquisitive Wolf. Yes, I am stronger than you. I will teach you, if you wish to learn."

 _How... learn?_ the Wolf asked.

The creature expressed pleasure, a quirk of amusement. "I will show you, if you come with me. It would be easier for you to take a physical form, but I—"

 _Reject!_ the Wolf thought instantly. It could not hunt in such a shape. _Refuse. Dismiss. Disdain!_

"Too proud to join us, are you? Well, well. I have other children. I'm in no hurry for you."

The scent of the other quarry had already begun to fade. The Wolf was torn between the ever-present desire to chase and the strangeness of the creature's words. The Wolf wanted to hunt, it wanted satiation however brief, but it did not want to leave. 

For the first time in the Wolf's life he was confused.

 _Not prey,_ the Wolf said.

"Agreed. Neither prey nor preyed upon. Let us be friends, Proud Wolf," the creature replied. "Go and chase your hare. We will meet again."

How would he know the creature if that happened? By what token would he recognize it? The Wolf fumbled toward another question, a concept he almost lacked the ability to entertain. 

_You... you are... you are who?_ the Wolf asked.

But it seemed the creature was familiar with this problem and already had a solution. The creature smiled at him. "You will know me as Mythal," she said.

She did not ask his name, for he did not have one.

* * *

Time passed. The Wolf hardly noticed. He was not the only being who had gained in complexity and strength. More and more frequently his prey communicated Fear and Despair with words. Words—the ability was almost like a sickness, something spread through contamination—a suspicious novelty among lower creatures. The Wolf had no desire to exchange words with anyone but Mythal, and he encountered her but rarely. Certain other prey used tools as she had—shields, spears—but none was quite like her. Not entirely.

The Wolf roamed a territory in the Beyond; he came to view it as his own. It stretched as far as he could run, which was quite a large space indeed. The Wolf's Hunger had grown along with his power. Lesser wisps no longer interested him. He allowed the little ones to wander unmolested, encouraged them, which drew in others who considered them prey. These others formed his meals. 

It happened one day that the Wolf chased a lesser monster to the very edge of the Beyond. After enjoying his repast the Wolf turned back from the border. He disdained the harsh other world—rarely spent much time there—the colors were too garish, the emotions too pale. He did not like the feel of a realm in which things did not change on their own. Was that not similar to death? And yet the People—physical prey, who thought and sensed as his kind did—called _his_ homeland the realm of death. Befuddled creatures—there were not very many of them—the only point in their favor.

The Wolf had not yet reached his own territory when he noticed an oddity. Only a few at first, but then in ever greater numbers. The lesser spirits were attempting to flee. They transported themselves in a flood by every mechanism they possessed, using all the magic at their command—tiny hovering sparks or nebulous clouds, winged dragonets with eyes of flame, even a few filmy spirits in the shapes of Men. They fled the border of the Other Realm.

The Wolf slowed to watch them pass. 

Then he stopped to gaze in the opposite direction. What had frightened the little ones? A great beast? Greater than himself, for they had not even glanced his way—

There was a gleam on the horizon. A thin line of gold, like a blaze of fire seen from a distance, or a yellow glint of the rising sun on water. What was it? 

And then he caught it too: _Terror._ Heat and rage and madness, confusion at loose ends, torn seams, buckling turf, panic and dismay. 

The Wolf ran. 

He bolted over a chasm just as it opened up beneath him, leapt past the destroyed remnants of other terrified beings who had not reacted quickly enough. The Wolf knew of a safe place. A place of silence where the magic was too compressed for others to approach. He went there sometimes when he wished to puzzle over peculiar things. Surely it would be safe—

But every time he glanced behind he saw the golden rage had grown.

Finally the light grew too bright for his many and sensitive eyes. Scorching heat baked the earth which split beneath his claws. The Wolf huddled on the ground, drawing magic over himself like a cloak. He hoped its strength would preserve his life. He did not want to die—not yet. He could not endure it—could not be defeated—not without knowing _why_!

When the fire swept over him the pain exploded, incinerating him like so much ash.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Nothing - In tribute to one of the [most terrifying visions](http://i.imgur.com/bRnSaND.jpg) of my childhood *shiver*


	2. The Nothing, Pt. 2/2

When the Wolf awoke he could not do anything but crawl. Nothing remained of the weaker spirits but subtle wrinkles of denatured energy. All else had been destroyed. Even the littlest ones were swept away by the consuming fire. The Wolf was alone and terribly injured. His eyes were melted shut. 

He expended much of his remaining magic to rebuild his hearing, but silence surrounded him. He was not strong enough to go in search of others. All he could do was creep along the ground: pain and Purpose drove him to safety. 

When he reached his bolt-hole he crawled inside, weeping in agony, and coiled up to fall asleep.

* * *

Hunger grew until the Wolf was maddened, in pain but far too weak to hunt. Too little of his mind remained for him to heal himself. Even if he'd had the strength to leave there was nothing to consume. Every being he might have eaten was dead. He lay in his safe place shivering with fever until, at last, she came.

"I'm glad you're alive, my friend," Mythal said.

The Wolf lifted his head to greet her—but his jaws snapped, baring fangs in Fear and warning and ravenous need. 

She frowned at him sadly, in grim recognition. "You were strong enough to survive—but no stronger. I will help you, if you let me."

He could not reply. 

Mythal extended her hand to him—and he raised a growl that rumbled through the bones of the earth. He could not prevent her if she wished to touch him, but he also could not stop himself from biting if she tried. 

Mythal let her hand fall to her lap. "Fool Wolf," she said, sighing. "In the beginning Hunger made you powerful. Now it makes you weak. I will help you anyway, but to do that I must change you. It will not be quick or pleasant and you will never be the same. The alternative is to remain as you are now. Forever helpless, trapped in your own madness. Death would be the least of your worries were one of the others to find you."

With every word she spoke the Wolf's anxiety grew. He must force himself to speak—he _must_. She intended to change him? He did not want what she had offered before—to endure a body, a physical manifestation—that constantly quavered with the beat of blood and breathing, to run and rut beneath the baleful blinding sun, to eat dust and dung and the body parts of dead animals—forever tied to the hideous rhythms of life, trapped in a realm where things once changed could not change back.

 _I do not want a body!_ he cried.

"Still?" Mythal sighed again. "Someday you'll wonder how you ever managed without one. I could use your help, but very well. If you wish to remain in this state I will only excise the damaged parts of your soul."

Once more the being he knew as Mythal proved how strong she was. She bested him as easily as if he were a whimpering pup, ignoring his deadly poisoned incisors and razor-filed claws. With a sharp but meticulous blade she cut out the parts of his spirit that had festered.

When it was done she let him rest. He lapped silver mana from her cupped hands and lapsed into a deep and healing sleep.

* * *

When the Wolf woke he was not alone. He tested his body, flexing his limbs, examining the skin of jagged scales that covered him. No wounds remained. No scars had formed to remind him of his pain. There was no external change at all.

"I feel no different," he said.

"Do you not?" the goddess asked with an amused smile, as fresh as morning rain. "You are like a blade reforged."

"The terrible fire that destroyed so many, what was the cause?" he asked.

Mythal took in a breath, and he sensed sadness from her, the first glimmering of a frustration that would only grow with time. "You were fortunate to sleep through the worst. Many suffered from his vengeance—the Eldest of us."

"There exists one greater than you?" the Wolf asked.

"There are others," she agreed, which was not the same as an answer. "Perhaps one day you will meet them."

"I will devour them," he said.

She gave him a warning glance. "Arrogant Wolf. If you tried they would destroy you. The Twins do not hunt alone."

But he had spoken more from reflex than actual Desire. Hunger no longer motivated him; Mythal had plucked it from his soul. He was curious about these others. Were they at all like him? Did they imagine themselves his equals? How amusing. He wondered where they might be found. He wanted to search them out, but not because he wished to consume them. He wanted to test his strength against theirs—a new and thrilling kind of hunt.

Did Mythal think they were stronger? Let them prove it.

But perhaps it was not wise to discuss this with Mythal. She probably loved them more than him. They were part of the physical world as he was not.

The Wolf lowered his head in submission and respect. "You are right, I do feel different. You saved me, friend. I hope to repay you in the future."

"I hope I never need such help," Mythal said with a rueful laugh, "for I would be in a dreadful predicament. Are you certain you feel better? You feel no... regret?"

"What would I regret?" he asked.

Mythal's eyes—wide and still and deep as the Abyss—gazed into his. "Change is not easy for any of us, my Wolf. You lost part of yourself today. You are not the same Wolf you were when you began. Many would resent that or blame the one who caused it."

"The pain was not enjoyable," he admitted, "but there is no Wisdom in protesting the one who heals the wound. I will save my anger for the Eldest. His Rage destroyed a multitude."

The goddess extended her hand to caress his cheek. "That too is Justice. It is not too late to come with me. There is much to learn—and many things you would enjoy. That I promise. Are you certain you won't change your mind? It would be the easier path."

"Nothing will ever change my mind," said the Wolf.

"Nothing indeed," Mythal replied, "my foolish friend."

When she had gone he went in search of the Twins.


End file.
